A printer-friendly text of Chapters 21-30 of Part Four
of Gandhi's Autobiography.

21. POLAK TAKES THE PLUNGE

It has always been my regret that although
I started the Settlement at Phoenix, I could stay there only for brief
periods. My original idea had been gradually to retire from practice, go
and live at the Settlement, earn my livelihood by manual work there, and
find the joy of service in the fulfilment of Phoenix. But it was not to
be. I have found by experience that man makes his plans to be often upset
by God, but at the same time, where the ultimate goal is the search of
truth, no matter how a man's plans are frustrated, the issue is never injurious
and often better than anticipated. The unexpected turn that Phoenix took
and the unexpected happenings were certainly not injurious, though it is
difficult to say that they were better than our original expectations.

In order to enable every one of us to make a living
by manual labour, we parcelled out the land round the press in pieces of
three acres each. One of these fell to my lot. On all these plots we, much
against our wish, built houses with corrugated iron. Our desire had been
to have mud huts thatched with straw, or small brick houses such as would
become ordinary peasants, but it could not be. They would have been more
expensive and would have meant more time, and everyone was eager to settle
down as soon as possible.

The editor was still Mansukhlal Naazar. He had not
accepted the new scheme, and was directing the paper from Durban where
there was a branch office for Indian Opinion. Though we had paid
compositors, the idea was for every member of the Settlement to learn type-setting,
the easiest, if the most tedious, of the processes in a printing press.
Those, therefore, who did not already know the work learnt it. I remained
a dunce to the last. Maganlal Gandhi surpassed us all. Though he had never
before worked in a press, he became an expert compositor, and not only
achieved great speed but, to my agreeable surprise, quickly mastered all
the other branches of press work. I have always thought that he was not
conscious of his own capacity.

We had hardly settled down, the buildings were hardly
ready, when I had to leave the newly constructed nest and go to Johannesburg.
I was not in a position to allow the work there to remain without attention
for any length of time.

On [my] return to Johannesburg, I informed Polak
of the important changes I had made. His joy knew no bounds when he learnt
that the loan of his book had been so fruitful. 'Is it not possible,' he
asked, 'for me to take part in the new venture?' 'Certainly,' said I. 'You
may if you like join the Settlement.' 'I am quite ready,' he replied, 'if
you will admit me.'

His determination captured me. He gave a month's
notice to his chief to be relieved from The Critic, and reached
Phoenix in due course. By his sociability he won the hearts of all, and
soon became a member of the family. Simplicity was so much a part of his
nature that, far from feeling the life at Phoenix in any way strange or
hard, he took to it like a duck takes to water. But I could not keep him
there long. Mr. Ritch had decided to finish his legal studies in England,
and it was impossible for me to bear the burden of the office single-handed,
so I suggested to Polak that he should join the office and qualify as an
attorney. I had thought that ultimately both of us would retire and settle
at Phoenix, but that never came to pass. Polak's was such a trustful nature
that when he reposed his confidence in a friend, he would try to agree
with him instead of arguing with him. He wrote to me from Phoenix that
though he loved the life there, was perfectly happy, and had hopes of developing
the Settlement, still he was ready to leave and join the office to qualify
as an attorney, if I thought that thereby we should more quickly realize
our ideals. I heartily welcomed the letter. Polak left Phoenix, came to
Johannesburg, and signed his articles with me.

About the same time a Scots theosophist, whom I had
been coaching for a local legal examination, also joined as an articled
clerk, on my inviting him to follow Polak's example. His name was Mr. MacIntyre.

Thus, with the laudable object of quickly realizing
the ideals at Phoenix, I seemed to be going deeper and deeper into a contrary
current, and had God not willed otherwise, I should have found myself entrapped
in this net spread in the name of simple life.

It will be after a few more chapters that I shall
describe how I and my ideals were saved in a way no one had imagined or
expected.

22. WHOM GOD PROTECTS

I had now given up all hope of returning to
India in the near future. I had promised my wife that I would return home
within a year. The year was gone without any prospect of return, so I decided
to send for her and the children.

On the boat bringing them to South Africa, Ramdas,
my third son, broke his arm while playing with the ship's captain. The
captain looked after him well, and had him attended to by the ship's doctor.
Ramdas landed with his hand in a sling. The doctor had advised that as
soon as we reached home, the wound should be dressed by a qualified doctor.
But this was the time when I was full of faith in my experiments in earth
treatment. I had even succeeded in persuading some of my clients who had
faith in my quackery to try the earth and water treatment.

What then was I to do for Ramdas? He was just eight
years old. I asked him if he would mind my dressing his wound. With a smile
he said he did not mind at all. It was not possible for him at that age
to decide what was the best thing for him, but he knew very well the distinction
between quackery and proper medical treatment. And he knew my habit of
home treatment, and had faith enough to trust himself to me. In fear and
trembling I undid the bandage, washed the wound, applied a clean earth
poultice, and tied the arm up again. This sort of dressing went on daily
for about a month until the wound was completely healed. There was no hitch,
and the wound took no more time to heal than the ship's doctor had said
it would under the usual treatment.

This and other experiments enhanced my faith in such
household remedies, and I now proceeded with them with more self-confidence.
I widened the sphere of their application, trying the earth and water and
fasting treatment in cases of wounds, fevers, dyspepsia, jaundice, and
other complaints, with success on most occasions. But nowadays I have not
the confidence I had in South Africa, and experience has even shown that
these experiments involve obvious risks.

The reference here, therefore, to these experiments
is not meant to demonstrate their success. I cannot claim complete success
for any experiment. Even medical men can make no such claim for their experiments.
My object is only to show that he who would go in for novel experiments
must begin with himself. That leads to a quicker discovery of truth, and
God always protects the honest experimenter.

The risks involved in experiments in cultivating
intimate contacts with Europeans were as grave as those in the nature cure
experiments. Only those risks were of a different kind. But in cultivating
those contacts I never so much as thought of the risks.

I invited Polak to come and stay with me, and we
began to live like blood brothers. The lady who was soon to be Mrs. Polak
and he had been engaged for some years, but the marriage had been postponed
for a propitious time. I have an impression that Polak wanted to put some
money by before he settled down to a married life. He knew Ruskin much
better than I, but his Western surroundings were a bar against his translating
Ruskin's teaching immediately into practice. But I pleaded with him: 'When
there is a heart union, as in your case, it is hardly right to postpone
marriage merely for financial considerations. If poverty is a bar, poor
men can never marry. And then you are now staying with me. There is no
question of household expenses. I think you should get married as soon
as possible.' As I have said in a previous chapter, I had never to argue
a thing twice with Polak. He appreciated the force of my argument, and
immediately opened correspondence on the subject with Mrs. Polak, who was
then in England. She gladly accepted the proposal, and in a few months
reached Johannesburg. Any expense over the wedding was out of the question,
not even a special dress was thought necessary. They needed no religious
rites to seal the bond. Mrs. Polak was a Christian by birth, and Polak
a Jew. Their common religion was the religion of ethics.

I may mention in passing an amusing incident in connection
with this wedding. The Registrar of European marriages in the Transvaal
could not register marriages between black or coloured people. In the wedding
in question, I acted as the best man. Not that we could not have got a
European friend for the purpose, but Polak would not brook the suggestion.
So we three went to the Registrar of marriages. How could he be sure that
the parties to a marriage in which I acted as the best man would be whites?
He proposed to postpone registration, pending inquiries. The next day was
a Sunday. The day following was New Year's Day, a public holiday. To postpone
the date of a solemnly arranged wedding on such a flimsy pretext was more
than one could put up with. I knew the Chief Magistrate, who was head of
the Registration Department. So I appeared before him with the couple.
He laughed and gave me a note to the Registrar, and the marriage was duly
registered.

Up to now the Europeans living with us had been more
or less known to me before. But now an English lady who was an utter stranger
to us entered the family. I do not remember our ever having had a difference
with the newly married couple, but even if Mrs. Polak and my wife had some
unpleasant experiences, they would have been no more than what happen in
the best-regulated homogeneous families. And let it be remembered that
mine would be considered an essentially heterogeneous family, where people
of all kinds and temperaments were freely admitted. When we come to think
of it, the distinction between heterogeneous and homogeneous is discovered
to be merely imaginary. We are all one family.

I had better celebrate West's wedding also in this
chapter. At this stage of my life, my ideas about
brahmacharya had
not fully matured, and so I was interesting myself in getting all my bachelor
friends married. When, in due course, West made a pilgrimage to Louth to
see his parents, I advised him to return married if possible. Phoenix was
the common home, and as we were all supposed to have become farmers, we
were not afraid of marriage and its usual consequences. West returned with
Mrs. West, a beautiful young lady from Leicester. She came of a family
of shoemakers working in a Leicester factory. Mrs. West had herself some
experience of work in this factory. I have called her beautiful, because
it was her moral beauty that at once attracted me. True beauty after all
consists in purity of heart. With Mr. West had come his mother-in-law too.
The old lady is still alive. She put us all to shame by her industry and
her buoyant, cheerful nature.

In the same way as I persuaded these European friends
to marry, I encouraged the Indian friends to send for their families from
home. Phoenix thus developed into a little village, half a dozen families
having come and settled and begun to increase there.

23. A PEEP INTO THE HOUSEHOLD

It has already been seen that though household
expenses were heavy, the tendency towards simplicity began in Durban. But
the Johannesburg house came in for much severer overhauling in the light
of Ruskin's teaching.

I introduced as much simplicity as was possible in
a barrister's house. It was impossible to do without a certain amount of
furniture. The change was more internal than external. The liking for doing
personally all the physical labour increased. I therefore began to bring
my children also under that discipline.

Instead of buying baker's bread, we began to prepare
unleavened wholemeal bread at home according to Kuhne's recipe. Common
mill flour was no good for this, and the use of hand-ground flour, it was
thought, would ensure more simplicity, health, and economy. So I purchased
a hand-mill for £7. The iron wheel was too heavy to be tackled by
one man, but easy for two. Polak and I and the children usually worked
it. My wife also occasionally lent a hand, though the grinding hour was
her usual time for commencing kitchen work. Mrs. Polak now joined us on
her arrival. The grinding proved a very beneficial exercise for the children.
Neither this nor any other work was ever imposed on them, but it was a
pastime to them to come and lend a hand, and they were at liberty to break
off whenever tired. But the children, including those whom I shall have
occasion to introduce later, as a rule never failed me. Not that I had
no laggards at all, but most did their work cheerfully enough. I can recall
few youngsters in those days fighting shy of work or pleading fatigue.

We had engaged a servant to look after the house.
He lived with us as a member of the family, and the children used to help
him in his work. The municipal sweeper removed the night-soil, but we personally
attended to the cleaning of the closet, instead of asking or expecting
the servant to do it. This proved a good training for the children. The
result was that none of my sons developed any aversion for scavenger's
work, and they naturally got a good grounding in general sanitation. There
was hardly any illness in the home at Johannesburg, but whenever there
was any, the nursing was willingly done by the children. I will not say
that I was indifferent to their literary education, but I certainly did
not hesitate to sacrifice it. My sons have therefore some reason for a
grievance against me. Indeed they have occasionally given expression to
it, and I must plead guilty to a certain extent. The desire to give them
a literary education was there. I even endeavoured to give it to them myself,
but every now and then there was some hitch or other. As I had made no
other arrangement for their private tuition, I used to get them to walk
with me daily to the office and back home--a distance of about five miles
in all. This gave them and me a fair amount of exercise. I tried to instruct
them by conversation during these walks, if there was no one else claiming
my attention. All my children, excepting the eldest, Harilal, who had stayed
away in India, were brought up in Johannesburg in this manner. Had I been
able to devote at least an hour to their literary education with strict
regularity, I should have given them, in my opinion, an ideal education.
But it has been their, as also my, regret that I failed to ensure them
enough literary training. The eldest son has often given vent to his distress
privately before me, and publicly in the press; the other sons have generously
forgiven the failure as unavoidable. I am not heart-broken over it, and
the regret, if any, is that I did not prove an ideal father. But I hold
that I sacrificed their literary training to what I genuinely, though maybe
wrongly, believed to be service to the community. I am quite clear that
I have not been negligent in doing whatever was needful for building up
their character. I believe it is the bounden duty of every parent to provide
for this properly. Whenever, in spite of my endeavour, my sons have been
found wanting, it is my certain conviction that they have reflected, not
want of care on my part, but the defects of both their parents.

Children inherit the qualities of the parents, no
less than their physical features. Environment does play an important part,
but the original capital on which a child starts in life is inherited from
its ancestors. I have also seen children successfully surmounting the effects
of an evil inheritance. That is due to purity being an inherent attribute
of the soul.

Polak and I had often very heated discussions about
the desirability or otherwise of giving the children an English education.
It has always been my conviction that Indian parents who train their children
to think and talk in English from their infancy betray their children and
their country. They deprive them of the spiritual and social heritage of
the nation, and render them to that extent unfit for the service of the
country. Having these convictions, I made a point of always talking to
my children in Gujarati. Polak never liked this. He thought I was spoiling
their future. He contended, with all the vigour and love at his command,
that if children were to learn a universal language like English from their
infancy, they would easily gain considerable advantage over others in the
race of life. He failed to convince me. I do not now remember whether I
convinced him of the correctness of my attitude, or whether he gave me
up as too obstinate. This happened about twenty years ago, and my convictions
have only deepened with experience. Though my sons have suffered for want
of [a] full literary education, the knowledge of the mother tongue that
they naturally acquired has been all to their and the country's good, inasmuch
as they do not appear the foreigners they would otherwise have appeared.
They naturally became bilingual, speaking and writing English with fair
ease, because of daily contact with a large circle of English friends,
and because of their stay in a country where English was the chief language
spoken.

24. THE ZULU 'REBELLION'

Even after I thought I had settled down in
Johannesburg, there was to be no settled life for me. Just when I felt
that I should be breathing in peace, an unexpected event happened. The
papers brought the news of the outbreak of the Zulu 'rebellion' in Natal.
I bore no grudge against the Zulus, they had harmed no Indian. I had doubts
about the 'rebellion' itself. But I then believed that the British Empire
existed for the welfare of the world. A genuine sense of loyalty prevented
me from even wishing ill to the Empire. The rightness or otherwise of the
'rebellion' was therefore not likely to affect my decision. Natal had a
Volunteer Defence Force, and it was open to it to recruit more men. I read
that this force had already been mobilised to quell the 'rebellion'.

I considered myself a citizen of Natal, being intimately
connected with it. So I wrote to the Governor, expressing my readiness,
if necessary, to form an Indian Ambulance Corps. He replied immediately,
accepting the offer.

I had not expected such prompt acceptance. Fortunately
I had made all the necessary arrangements even before writing the letter.
If my offer was accepted, I had decided to break up the Johannesburg home.
Polak was to have a smaller house, and my wife was to go and settle at
Phoenix. I had her full consent to this decision. I do not remember her
having ever stood in my way in matters like this. As soon, therefore, as
I got the reply from the Governor, I gave the landlord the usual month's
notice of vacating the house, sent some of the things to Phoenix, and left
some with Polak.

I went to Durban and appealed for men. A big contingent
was not necessary. We were a party of twenty-four, of whom, besides me,
four were Gujaratis. The rest were ex-indentured men from South India,
excepting one who was a free Pathan.

In order to give me a status and to facilitate work,
as also in accordance with the existing convention, the Chief Medical Officer
appointed me to the temporary rank of Sergeant Major, and three men selected
by me to the rank of sergeants, and one to that of corporal. We also received
our uniforms from the Government. Our Corps was on active service for nearly
six weeks. On reaching the scene of the 'rebellion', I saw that there was
nothing there to justify the name of 'rebellion'. There was no resistance
that one could see. The reason why the disturbance had been magnified into
a rebellion was that a Zulu chief had advised non-payment of a new tax
imposed on his people, and had assagaied [=speared] a sergeant who had
gone to collect the tax. At any rate my heart was with the Zulus, and I
was delighted, on reaching headquarters, to hear that our main work was
to be nursing of the wounded Zulus. The Medical Officer in charge welcomed
us. He said the white people were not willing nurses for the wounded Zulus,
that their wounds were festering, and that he was at his wits' end. He
hailed our arrival as a godsend for those innocent people, and he equipped
us with bandages, disinfectants, etc., and took us to the improvised hospital.
The Zulus were delighted to see us. The white soldiers used to peep through
the railings that separated us from them, and tried to dissuade us from
attending to the wounds. And as we would not heed them, they became enraged
and poured unspeakable abuse on Zulus.

Gradually I came into closer touch with these soldiers,
and they ceased to interfere. Among the commanding officers were Colonel
Sparks and Colonel Wylie, who had bitterly opposed me in 1896. They were
surprised at my attitude, and specially called and thanked me. They introduced
me to General Mackenzie. Let not the reader think that these were professional
soldiers. Colonel Wylie was a well-known Durban lawyer. Colonel Sparks
was well-known as the owner of a butcher's shop in Durban. General Mackenzie
was a noted Natal farmer. All these gentlemen were volunteers, and as such
had received military training and experience.

The wounded in our charge were not wounded in battle.
A section of them had been taken prisoners as suspects. The general had
sentenced them to be flogged. The flogging had caused severe sores. These,
being unattended to, were festering. The others were Zulu friendlies. Although
these had badges given them to distinguish them from the 'enemy', they
had been shot at by the soldiers by mistake.

Besides this work, I had to compound and dispense
prescriptions for the white soldiers. This was easy enough for me, as I
had received a year's training in Dr. Booth's little hospital. This work
brought me in close contact with many Europeans.

We were attached to a swift-moving column. It had
orders to march wherever danger was reported. It was for the most part
mounted infantry. As soon as our camp was moved, we had to follow on foot
with our stretchers on our shoulders. Twice or thrice we had to march forty
miles a day. But wherever we went, I am thankful that we had God's good
work to do, having to carry to the camp on our stretchers those Zulu friendlies
who had been inadvertently wounded, and to attend upon them as nurses.

25. HEART SEARCHINGS

The Zulu 'rebellion' was full of new experiences,
and gave me much food for thought. The Boer War had not brought home to
me the horrors of war with anything like the vividness that the 'rebellion'
did. This was no war but a man-hunt, not only in my opinion, but also in
that of many Englishmen with whom I had occasion to talk. To hear every
morning reports [=loud cracking noises] of the soldiers' rifles exploding
like [fire]crackers in innocent hamlets, and to live in the midst of them,
was a trial. But I swallowed the bitter draught, especially as the work
of my Corps consisted only in nursing the wounded Zulus. I could see that
but for us, the Zulus would have been uncared for. This work, therefore,
eased my conscience.

But there was much else to set one thinking. It was
a sparsely populated part of the country. Few and far between in hills
and dales were the scattered Kraals of the simple and so-called 'uncivilized'
Zulus. Marching, with or without the wounded, through these solemn solitudes,
I often fell into deep thought.

I pondered over brahmacharya and its implications,
and my convictions took deep root. I discussed it with my co-workers. I
had not realized then how indispensable it was for self-realization, but
I clearly saw that one aspiring to serve humanity with his whole soul could
not do without it. It was borne in upon me that I should have more and
more occasions for service of the kind I was rendering, and that I should
find myself unequal to my task if I were engaged in the pleasures of family
life and in the propagation and rearing of children.

In a word, I could not live both after the flesh
and the spirit. On the present occasion, for instance, I should not have
been able to throw myself into the fray, had my wife been expecting a baby.
Without the observance of brahmacharya, service of the family would
be inconsistent with service of the community. With
brahmacharya,
they would be perfectly consistent.

So thinking, I became somewhat impatient to take
a final vow. The prospect of the vow brought a certain kind of exultation.
Imagination also found free play, and opened out limitless vistas of service.

Whilst I was thus in the midst of strenuous physical
and mental work, a report came to the effect that the work of suppressing
the 'rebellion' was nearly over, and that we should soon be discharged.
A day or two after this our discharge came, and in a few days we got back
to our homes.

After a short while I got a letter from the Governor,
specially thanking the Ambulance Corps for its services.

On my arrival at Phoenix I eagerly broached the subject
of brahmacharya with Chhaganlal, Maganlal, West, and others. They
liked the idea and accepted the necessity of taking the vow, but they also
represented the difficulties of the task. Some of them set themselves bravely
to observe it, and some, I know, succeeded also.

I also took the plunge--the vow to observe brahmacharya
for life. I must confess that I had not then fully realized the magnitude
and immensity of the task I undertook. The difficulties are even today
staring me in the face. The importance of the vow is being more and more
borne in upon me. Life without brahmacharya appears to me to be
insipid and animal-like. The brute by nature knows no self-restraint. Man
is man because he is capable of, and only in so far as he exercises, self-restraint.
What formerly appeared to me to be extravagant praise of brahmacharya
in our religious books seems now, with increasing clearness every day,
to be absolutely proper and founded on experience.

I saw that brahmacharya, which is so full
of wonderful potency, is by no means an easy affair, and certainly not
a mere matter of the body. It begins with bodily restraint, but does not
end there. The perfection of it precludes even an impure thought. A true
brahmachari
will not even dream of satisfying the fleshly appetite, and until he is
in that condition, he has a great deal of ground to cover.

For me the observance of even bodily brahmacharya
has been full of difficulties. Today I may say that I feel myself fairly
safe, but I have yet to achieve complete mastery over thought, which is
so essential. Not that the will or effort is lacking, but it is yet a problem
to me wherefrom undesirable thoughts spring their insidious invasions.
I have no doubt that there is a key to lock out undesirable thoughts, but
every one has to find it out for himself. Saints and seers have left their
experiences for us, but they have given us no infallible and universal
prescription. For perfection or freedom from error comes only from grace,
and so seekers after God have left us mantras, such as Ramanama,
hallowed by their own austerities and charged with their purity. Without
an unreserved surrender to His grace, complete mastery over thought is
impossible. This is the teaching of every great book of religion, and I
am realizing the truth of it every moment of my striving after that perfect
brahmacharya.

But part of the history of that striving and struggle
will be told in chapters to follow. I shall conclude this chapter with
an indication of how I set about the task. In the first flush of enthusiasm,
I found the observance quite easy. The very first change I made in my mode
of life was to stop sharing the same bed with my wife or seeking privacy
with her.

Thus brahmacharya, which I had been observing
willy-nilly since 1900, was sealed with a vow in the middle of 1906.

26. THE BIRTH OF SATYAGRAHA

Events were so shaping themselves in Johannesburg
as to make this self-purification on my part a preliminary, as it were,
to Satyagraha. I can now see that all the principal events of my life,
culminating in the vow of brahmacharya, were secretly preparing
me for it. The principle called Satyagraha came into being before that
name was invented. Indeed when it was born, I myself could not say what
it was. In Gujarati also we used the English phrase 'passive resistance'
to describe it. When in a meeting of Europeans I found that the term 'passive
resistance' was too narrowly construed, that it was supposed to be a weapon
of the weak, that it could be characterized by hatred, and that it could
finally manifest itself as violence, I had to demur to all these statements
and explain the real nature of the Indian movement. It was clear that a
new word must be coined by the Indians to designate their struggle.

But I could not for the life of me find out a new
name, and therefore offered a nominal prize through
Indian Opinion
to the reader who made the best suggestion on the subject. As a result
Maganlal Gandhi coined the word Sadagraha (Sat=truth, Agraha=firmness)
and won the prize. But in order to make it clearer I changed the word to
Satyagraha, which has since become current in Gujarati as a designation
for the struggle.

The history of this struggle is for all practical
purposes a history of the remainder of my life in South Africa, and especially
of my experiments with truth in that sub-continent. I wrote the major portion
of this history in Yeravda jail, and finished it after I was released.
It was published in Navajivan and subsequently issued in book form.
Sjt. Valji Govindji Desai has been translating it into English for Current
Thought, but I am now arranging to have the English translation/1/
published in book form at an early date, so that those who will may be
able to familiarize themselves with my most important experiments in South
Africa. I would recommend a perusal of my history of Satyagraha in South
Africa to such readers as have not seen it already. I will not repeat what
I have put down there, but in the next few chapters will deal only with
a few personal incidents of my life in South Africa which have not been
covered by that history. And when I have done with these, I will at once
proceed to give the reader some idea of my experiments in India. Therefore,
anyone who wishes to consider these experiments in their strict chronological
order will now do well to keep the history of Satyagraha in South Africa
before him.

I was anxious to observe
brahmacharya
in thought, word, and deed, and equally anxious to devote the maximum of
time to the Satyagraha struggle and fit myself for it by cultivating purity.
I was therefore led to make further changes, and to impose greater restraints
upon myself in the matter of food. The motive for the previous changes
had been largely hygienic, but the new experiments were made from a religious
standpoint.

Fasting and restriction in diet now played a more
important part in my life. Passion in man is generally co-existent with
a hankering after the pleasures of the palate. And so it was with me. I
have encountered many difficulties in trying to control passion as well
as taste, and I cannot claim even now to have brought them under complete
subjection. I have considered myself to be a heavy eater. What friends
have thought to be my restraint has never appeared to me in that light.
If I had failed to develop restraint to the extent that I have, I should
have descended lower than the beasts and met my doom long ago. However,
as I had adequately realized my shortcomings, I made great efforts to get
rid of them, and thanks to this endeavour I have all these years pulled
on with my body and put in with it my share of work.

Being conscious of my weakness, and unexpectedly
coming in contact with congenial company, I began to take an exclusive
fruit diet or to fast on the Ekadashi day, and also to observe Janmashtami
and similar holidays.

I began with a fruit diet, but from the standpoint
of restraint I did not find much to choose between a fruit diet and a diet
of food grains. I observed that the same indulgence of taste was possible
with the former as with the latter, and even more, when one got accustomed
to it. I therefore came to attach greater importance to fasting or having
only one meal a day on holidays. And if there was some occasion for penance
or the like, I gladly utilized it too for the purpose of fasting.

But I also saw that, the body now being drained more
effectively, the food yielded greater relish, and the appetite grew keener.
It dawned upon me that fasting could be made as powerful a weapon of indulgence
as of restraint. Many similar later experiences of mine as well as of others
can be adduced as evidence of this startling fact. I wanted to improve
and train my body, but as my chief object now was to achieve restraint
and a conquest of the palate, I selected first one food and then another,
and at the same time restricted the amount. But the relish was after me,
as it were. As I gave up one thing and took up another, this latter afforded
me a fresher and greater relish than its predecessor.

In making these experiments I had several companions,
the chief of whom was Hermann Kallenbach. I have already written about
this friend in the history of Satyagraha in South Africa, and will not
go over the same ground here. Mr. Kallenbach was always with me, whether
in fasting or in dietetic changes. I lived with him at his own place when
the Satyagraha struggle was at its height. We discussed our changes in
food, and derived more pleasure from the new diet than from the old. Talk
of this nature sounded quite pleasant in those days, and did not strike
me as at all improper. Experience has taught me, however, that it was wrong
to have dwelt upon the relish of food. One should eat not in order to please
the palate, but just to keep the body going. When each organ of sense subserves
the body, and through the body the soul, its special relish disappears,
and then alone does it begin to function in the way nature intended it
to do.

Any number of experiments is too small, and no sacrifice
is too great, for attaining this symphony with nature. But unfortunately
the current is nowadays flowing strongly in the opposite direction. We
are not ashamed to sacrifice a multitude of other lives in decorating the
perishable body and trying to prolong its existence for a few fleeting
moments, with the result that we kill ourselves, both body and soul. In
trying to cure one old disease, we give rise to a hundred new ones; in
trying to enjoy the pleasures of sense, we lose in the end even our capacity
for enjoyment. All this is passing before our very eyes, but there are
none so blind as those who will not see.

Having thus set forth their object and the train
of ideas which led up to them, I now propose to describe the dietetic experiments
at some length.

28. KASTURBAI'S COURAGE

Thrice in her life my wife narrowly escaped
death through serious illness. The cures were due to household remedies.
At the time of her first attack Satyagraha was going on or was about to
commence. She had frequent haemorrhage. A medical friend advised a surgical
operation, to which she agreed after some hesitation. She was extremely
emaciated, and the doctor had to perform the operation without chloroform.
It was successful, but she had to suffer much pain. She, however, went
through it with wondeful bravery. The doctor and his wife who nursed her
were all attention. This was in Durban. The doctor gave me leave to go
to Johannesburg, and told me not to have any anxiety about the patient.

In a few days, however, I received a letter to the
effect that Kasturbai was worse, too weak to sit up in bed, and had once
become unconscious. The doctor knew that he might not, without my consent,
give her wines or meat. So he telephoned to me at Johannesburg for permission
to give her beef tea. I replied saying I could not grant the permission,
but that if she was in a condition to express her wish in the matter, she
might be consulted, and she was free to do as she liked. 'But,' said the
doctor, 'I refuse to consult the patient's wishes in the matter. You must
come yourself. If you do not leave me free to prescribe whatever diet I
like, I will not hold myself responsible for your wife's life.'

I took the train for Durban the same day, and met
the doctor, who quietly broke this news to me: 'I had already given Mrs.
Gandhi beef tea when I telephoned to you.'

'Now, doctor, I call this a fraud,' said I.

'No question of fraud in prescribing medicine or
diet for a patient. In fact we doctors consider it a virtue to deceive
patients or their relatives, if thereby we can save our patients,' said
the doctor with determination.

I was deeply pained, but kept cool. The doctor was
a good man and a personal friend. He and his wife had laid me under a debt
of gratitude, but I was not prepared to put up with his medical morals.

'Doctor, tell me what you propose to do now. I would
never allow my wife to be given meat or beef, even if the denial meant
her death, unless of course she desired to take it.'

'You are welcome to your philosophy. I tell you that
so long as you keep your wife under my treatment, I must have the option
to give her anything I wish. If you don't like this, I must regretfully
ask you to remove her. I can't see her die under my roof.'

'Do you mean to say that I must remove her at once?'

'Whenever did I ask you to remove her? I only want
to be left entirely free. If you do so, my wife and I will do all that
is possible for her, and you may go back without the least anxiety on her
score. But if you will not understand this simple thing, you will compel
me to ask you to remove your wife from my place.'

I think one of my sons was with me. He entirely agreed
with me, and said his mother should not be given beef tea. I next spoke
to Kasturbai herself. She was really too weak to be consulted in this matter.
But I thought it my painful duty to do so. I told her what had passed between
the doctor and myself. She gave a resolute reply: 'I will not take beef
tea. It is a rare thing in this world to be born as a human being, and
I would far rather die in your arms than pollute my body with such abominations.'

I pleaded with her. I told her that she was not bound
to follow me. I cited to her the instances of Hindu friends and acquaintances
who had no scruples about taking meat or wine as medicine. But she was
adamant. 'No,' said she, 'pray remove me at once.'

I was delighted. Not without some agitation I decided
to take her away. I informed the doctor of her resolve. He exclaimed in
a rage: 'What a callous man you are! You should have been ashamed to broach
the matter to her in her present condition. I tell you your wife is not
in a fit state to be removed. She cannot stand the least little hustling.
I shouldn't be surprised if she were to die on the way. But if you must
persist, you are free to do so. If you will not give her beef tea, I will
not take the risk of keeping her under my roof even for a single day.'

So we decided to leave the place at once. It was
drizzling and the station was some distance. We had to take the train from
Durban for Phoenix, whence our Settlement was reached by a road of two
miles and a half. I was undoubtedly taking a very great risk, but I trusted
in God, and proceeded with my task. I sent a messenger to Phoenix in advance,
with a message to West to receive us at the station with a hammock, a bottle
of hot milk and one of hot water, and six men to carry Kasturbai in the
hammock. I got a rickshaw to enable me to take her by the next available
train, put her into it in that dangerous condition, and marched away.

Kasturbai needed no cheering up. On the contrary,
she comforted me, saying: 'Nothing will happen to me. Don't worry.'

She was mere skin and bone, having had no nourishment
for days. The station platform was very large, and as the rickshaw could
not be taken inside, one had to walk some distance before one could reach
the train. So I carried her in my arms and put her into the compartment.
From Phoenix we carried her in the hammock, and there she slowly picked
up strength under hydropathic treatment.

In two or three days of our arrival at Phoenix a
Swami came to our place. He had heard of the resolute way in which we had
rejected the doctor's advice, and he had, out of sympathy, come to plead
with us. My second and third sons Manilal and Ramdas were, so far as I
can recollect, present when the Swami came. He held forth on the religious
harmlessness of taking meat, citing authorities from Manu. I did not like
his carrying on this disputation in the presence of my wife, but I suffered
him to do so out of courtesy. I knew the verses from the
Manusmriti,
I did not need them for my conviction. I knew also that there was a school
which regarded these verses as interpolations: but even if they were not,
I held my views on vegetarianism independently of religious texts, and
Kasturbai's faith was unshakable. To her the scriptural texts were a sealed
book, but the traditional religion of her forefathers was enough for her.
The children swore by their father's creed, and so they made light of the
Swami's discourse. But Kasturbai put an end to the dialogue at once. 'Swamiji,'
she said, 'whatever you may say, I do not want to recover by means of beef
tea.
Pray don't worry me any more. You may discuss the thing with my husband
and children if you like. But my mind is made up.'

29. DOMESTIC SATYAGRAHA

My first experience of jail life was in 1908.
I saw that some of the regulations that the prisoners had to observe were
such as should voluntarily be observed by a brahmachari, that is,
one desiring to practise self-restraint. Such, for instance, was the regulation
requiring the last meal to be finished before sunset. Neither the Indian
nor the African prisoners were allowed tea or coffee. They could add salt
to the cooked food if they wished, but they might not have anything for
the mere satisfaction of the palate. When I asked the jail medical officer
to give us curry powder, and to let us add salt to the food whilst it was
cooking, he said: 'You are not here for satisfying your palate. From the
point of view of health, curry powder is not necessary, and it makes no
difference whether you add salt during or after cooking.'

Ultimately these restrictions were modified, though
not without much difficulty, but both were wholesome rules of self-restraint.
Inhibitions imposed from without rarely succeed, but when they are self-imposed,
they have a decidedly salutary effect. So immediately after release from
jail, I imposed on myself the two rules. As far as was then possible, I
stopped taking tea, and finished my last meal before sunset. Both these
now require no effort in the observance.

There came, however an occasion which compelled me
to give up salt altogether, and this restriction I continued for an unbroken
period of ten years. I had read in some books on vegetarianism that salt
was not a necessary article of diet for man, that on the contrary saltless
diet was better for the health. I had deduced that a brahmachari
benefited by a saltless diet. I had read and realized that the weak-bodied
should avoid pulses. I was very fond of them.

Now it happened that Kasturbai, who had a brief respite
after her operation, had again begun getting haemorrhage, and the malady
seemed to be obstinate. Hydropathic treatment by itself did not answer.
She had not much faith in my remedies, though she did not resist them.
She certainly did not ask for outside help. So when all my remedies had
failed, I entreated her to give up salt and pulses. She would not agree,
however much I pleaded with her, supporting myself with authorities. At
last she challenged me, saying that even I could not give up these articles
if I was advised to do so. I was pained and equally delighted--delighted
in that I got an opportunity to shower my love on her. I said to her: 'You
are mistaken. If I was ailing and the doctor advised to give up these or
any other articles, I should unhesitatingly do so. But there! Without any
medical advice, I give up salt and pulses for one year, whether you do
so or not.'

She was rudely shocked, and exclaimed in deep sorrow:
"Pray forgive me. Knowing you, I should not have provoked you. I promise
to abstain from these things, but for heaven's sake take back your vow.
This is too hard on me.'

'It is very good for you to forego these articles.
I have not the slightest doubt that you will be all the better without
them. As for me, I cannot retract a vow seriously taken. And it is sure
to benefit me, for all restraint, whatever prompts it, is wholesome for
men. You will therefore leave me alone. It will be a test for me, and a
moral support to you in carrying out your resolve.'

So she gave me up. 'You are too obstinate. You will
listen to none,' she said, and sought relief in tears.

I would like to count this incident as an instance
of Satyagraha, and it is one of the sweetest recollections of my life.

After this Kasturbai began to pick up quickly--whether
as a result of the saltless and pulseless diet, or of the other consequent
changes in her food; whether as a result of my strict vigilance in exacting
observance of the other rules of life, or as an effect of the mental exhilaration
produced by the incident, and if so to what extent, I cannot say. But she
rallied quickly, haemorrhage completely stopped, and I added somewhat to
my reputation as a quack.

As for me, I was all the better for the new denials.
I never craved for the things I had left, the year sped away, and I found
the senses to be more subdued than ever. The experiment stimulated the
inclination for self-restraint, and I continued the abstention from the
articles until long after I returned to India. Only once I happened to
take both the articles whilst I was in London in 1914. But of that occasion,
and as to how I resumed both, I shall speak in a later chapter.

I have tried the experiment of a saltless and pulseless
diet on many of my co-workers, and with good results in South Africa. Medically
there may be two opinions as to the value of this the diet, but morally
I have no doubt that all self-denial is good for the soul. The diet of
a man of self-restraint must be different from that of a man of pleasure,
just as their ways of life must be different. Aspirants after brahmacharya
often defeat their own end by adopting courses suited to a life of pleasure.

30. TOWARDS SELF-RESTRAINT

I have described in the last chapter how Kasturbai's
illness was instrumental in bringing about some changes in my diet. At
a later stage more changes were introduced for the sake of supporting brahmacharya.

The first of these was the giving up of milk. It
was from Raychandbhai that I first leant that milk stimulated animal passion.
Books on vegetarianism strengthened the idea, but so long as I had not
taken the brahmacharya vow I could not make up my mind to forego
milk. I had long realized that milk was not necessary for supporting the
body, but it was not easy to give it up. While the necessity for avoiding
milk in the interests of self-restraint was growing upon me, I happened
to come across some literature from Calcutta, describing the tortures to
which cows and buffaloes were subjected by their keepers. This had a wonderful
effect on me. I discussed it with Mr. Kallenbach.

Though I have introduced Mr Kallenbach to the readers
of the history of Satyagraha in South Africa, and referred to him in a
previous chapter, I think it necessary to say something more about him
here. We met quite by accident. He was a friend of Mr. Khan's, and as the
latter had discovered deep down in him a vein of other-worldliness, he
introduced him to me.

When I came to know him, I was startled at his love
of luxury and extravagance. But at our very first meeting, he asked searching
questions concerning matters of religion. We incidentally talked of Gautama
Buddha's renunciation. Our acquaintance soon ripened into very close friendship,
so much so that we thought alike, and he was convinced that he must carry
out in his life the changes I was making in mine.

At that time he was single, and was expending Rs.
1,200 monthly on himself, over and above house rent. Now he reduced himself
to such simplicity that his expenses came to Rs. 120 per month. After the
breaking up of my household and my first release from jail, we bagan to
live together. It was a fairly hard life that we led.

It was during this time that we had the discussion
about milk. Mr. Kallenbach said, 'We constantly talk about the harmful
effects of milk. Why then do not we give it up? It is certainly not necessary.'
I was agreeably surprised at the suggestion, which I warmly welcomed, and
both of us pledged ourselves to abjure milk there and then. This was at
Tolstoy Farm in the year 1912.

But this denial was not enough to satisfy me. Soon
after this I decided to live on a pure fruit diet, and that too composed
of the cheapest fruit possible. Our ambition was to live the life of the
poorest people.

I must here utter a warning for the aspirants of
brahmacharya.
Though I have made out an intimate connection between diet and brahmacharya,
it is certain that mind is the principal thing. A mind consciously unclean
cannot be cleansed by fasting. Modifications in diet have no effect on
it. The concupiscence of the mind cannot be rooted out except by intense
self-examination, surrender to God and, lastly, grace. But there is an
intimate connection between the mind and the body, and the carnal mind
always lusts for delicacies and luxuries. To obviate this tendency, dietetic
restrictions and fasting would appear to be necessary. The carnal mind,
instead of controlling the senses, becomes their slave, and therefore the
body always needs clean non-stimulating foods and periodical fasting.

Those who make light of dietetic restrictions and
fasting are as much in error as those who stake their all on them. My experience
teaches me that for those whose minds are working towards self-restraint,
dietetic restriction and fasting are very helpful. In fact without their
help concupiscence cannot be completely rooted out of the mind.